


Lessons

by acerbitas



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Every kind of Abuse, M/M, Sexual Assault, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Torture, disturbing puppy play, threats of putting objects...places
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-14
Updated: 2014-10-14
Packaged: 2018-02-21 03:36:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2453246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acerbitas/pseuds/acerbitas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ramsay takes Theon outside for the first time since his capture, and gives him back his bow and arrows.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lessons

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry it took so long to post another story! Lots of stuff going on~

Theon face was wet; his britches already soiled from the _things_ Ramsay had done to him.  Things he didn’t want to remember, and things he couldn’t forget, because they had been carved into his body.  The sunlight still burned his eyes, and he blinked miserably.  This was his first trip outside since he’d been captured.  He did not know how long that had been.  Two months?  One?  More?

He stared, perplexed, at the ground.  His heart was beating out of time.  Through sunken eyes he watched Ramsay.  His vision was blurred, and he jumped when Ramsay got too close.  His captor laughed at that.  Theon ground his teeth.

Ramsay forced a bow into Theon’s hands and then dumped some arrows at his feet.  Theon stood dumbfounded.   _He’s giving me weapons?_ The elation lasted a heartbeat.   _I cannot shoot.  Not anymore._

The bow’s texture, its grip, the way it balanced in his hands sent Theon into a shaking fit.   _It’s mine._ Theon knew whatever Ramsay had planned, it wasn’t pleasant.   _I’d rather be in my nice cell, the one with torchlight._ His bony body twitched, and his legs shook with the effort of standing.  If Ramsay hadn’t threatened to whack him each time he fell, he wouldn’t be standing.   _He’s going to make me try to shoot._

The birds chirped, fall leaves tumbled to the ground, and Theon cried.

The prisoner bit down hard to stop the sobs.  Theon knew silence was the only dignity he still possessed, and so he fought his squeaks and whimpers with every breath.  Instinctually he went to grasp the bow’s shaft, and held his other hand just above the bow string.  Two of his fingers on that hand trembled raw and skinless.   _He took the ones I needed most._

Ramsay had said it was a lesson, to prove that Theon was only meat.  Ramsay’s meat.  He’d taken his knife to Theon for two days straight.  Each day he’d ask Theon who he was, and got nothing but “Theon Greyjoy” until knife met flesh and Theon begged.  The third day, before the knife even touched his skin, Ramsay won the game:

“I don’t know.  Please don’t.  I don’t know,” Theon had sobbed, and had been rewarded with sleeping straw and a bowl of soup.  

Theon gasped for air in a gaping silence, Ramsay standing behind him: a monster in the shadows. The tightening of Theon’s heart and the pounding in his head were normal now, in these moments, when he sobbed and begged like a little peasant girl.  Was that what Ramsay wanted?  He’d be what Ramsay wanted, just for a little while, until he was rescued.

That was what he told himself, but he heard whispers, traitorous whispers in the night that nobody would come.  They told him nobody cared about Theon Greyjoy.  Nobody even _remembered_ a Theon Greyjoy.  Maybe Theon had made him up.

In the dungeons, the night before, winning that soup had not been easy.

“Don’t know _what?”_ Ramsay had asked, voice sharp.  Ramsay’s voice was another knife the bastard carried with him, pricking Theon’s soul until it dripped red with blood.  The flat end of Ramsay’s steel knife rubbed against his trembling finger.

“I don’t know who I am,” Theon had replied; it had been a lie.  “I’m...what _you_ want.  Just please don’t.”  His chest heaved, and he slumped, watching sweat drip from his brow and onto the stone floor.   _I don’t know, anymore, who I am.  Am I Theon Greyjoy, heir to Pyke?_ he thought, _am I just weak?  Have I always been this weak?_

“Good boy,” Ramsay had said, patting his cheek.  Then he’d left Theon, alone, with two fingers stripped bare but still attached and bleeding.   _I’ll kill him,_ Theon had thought, _when my father comes._ The guards had come instead, and let him curl up on straw, screaming in pain.  He nearly vomited up the soup..

Every day Theon felt smaller, down there in the dark, and now it was a new day.  An outside day.  He curled his shoulders in and cocked his head.  He did not feel any better being outside; in another fit he dropped the bow.

His head was down, and he was quivering next to his captor.  Ramsay had a smell to him.  The bastard stunk of dogs, meat, and copper--blood.  Even if he bathed, even though oils, it was there.  That smell in his nostrils made him want to bolt, but he stood firm.  He stood firm out of nothing but fear.

“I told you to hold it,” Ramsay snarled above him. “If you drop that bow one more fucking time I’ll take the rest of your fingers and leave you rotting stumps for hands.”

Theon whimpered and lowered his head. He took controlled breaths to try and ease the pain; it took every bit of willpower fought to not drop the bow.  For what seemed forever, it remained half on the ground.  His fingers roared with agony.

“Lift the bow.  Or has the great Theon Greyjoy lost his mind in the dark?”

“With Ramsay’s meaty breath on his neck, Theon lifted the bow.  A whimper escaped through gritted teeth.  “I’m not Theon,” he added, whipped enough to utter any pleasing lie.

“Good dog. Now shoot.”  Ramsay had taken to calling him _dog,_ ever since he’d said he didn’t know his own name.  “Shoot and keep going.”

Theon tried to release the arrow toward the target.  It was so close even a boy of ten could have hit it.  He concentrated, sweat beading on his forehead, and loosed.  But in truth, even the pressure of the bow on his skin made him weep harder.   The arrow fell a foot from his feet.

Remembering Ramsay’s warning--there were endless ones, it seemed--he forced himself to continue until another arrow released, but it fell a mere pathetic three feet from where Theon stood.

Theon dropped the bow and sobbed--let Ramsay take his fingers.  His throat hurt from the raspy gasps he made.  Shutting his eyes, the marksman turned away, unable to look at his arrows bow any longer.

“Well, well,” Ramsay purred in his scariest tone. “I was told the great Theon Greyjoy made a fine bowman.  I think you were right: you’re _not_ Theon Greyjoy.  Who are you, then, hmm?”

Theon did not have anything to say. He kept his head down, eyes shut.  The pain--greater than any other he’d felt, even in the dark--whistled up his arms like poison.   _You did this,_ he thought, _you’re the one who flayed me._

“I don’t think you’re worthy of the name Theon Greyjoy.  Do you?”

“No.”

A moment of silence.  Theon felt Ramsay’s breath against his ear this time.

“What’s your name?” Ramsay asked in a whisper, grabbing Theon’s ear like he was a boy.

They had played this game for days, but Theon didn’t know what the right answer was,  The last pieces of his pride banded together.  His father would be there for him soon - he was not some mangy cur.  He was the heir to Pyke.  Through a tight chest and fast, panicky breaths, he managed:

“Theon Greyjoy.”

A backhanded slap made him flinch, but he forced himself to regain as much composure as he could despite the tears.   _Please cut them off,_ he thought, for the thousandth time, _please.  Please._ But he could not say it; he remembered the last time he had.   _If only I could shoot, I’d kill him now.  My death would be an honorable one._

“You’re a shit, aren’t you?  Such an obstinate bitch to train.”

Theon stared at the ground, imagining what his defiance would get him.  His fingers were torches lit on fire, beyond any pain Theon had imagined possible.   _I should not have said that,_ he thought, _he’ll hurt me more._

“Stay.  Or you know what will happen to the rest of your fingers, dog.”

Theon stayed, and hate burned inside him as vicious as his wounds.   _I’m Theon,_ he thought.   _I’m Theon._ But when he opened his eyes, and looked at the arrow, he wondered who Theon was anymore.

Ramsay summoned a watching guard, and the guard hurried away.  Most of the conversation had been inaudible, but Theon had heard a few words.  New torturers were coming.  The ones the guards had dubbed the Bastard’s Boys.  Theon had heard enough of them to know what was coming.

Minutes later, Theon clutched the bow, shivering and miserable.  Ramsay had reissued the command to keep shooting. More blood flowed from his wounds. Ramsay’s crew were slouched along the wall of the castle, watching him with cruel intent.  Theon had heard some of their names--Skinner, Daemon--but he could not recognize their faces.

The longer Theon’s torment went on, the more he wanted to die. Even a different torture might be better.  He looked up at the men and realized, too late, that they were beginning to appear bored. That was dangerous.  Ramsay had a new glint in his eye that almost made Theon piss his breeches.

Ramsay strutted around Theon, the smirk on his face as cold as ice.  “Well, I guess you aren’t a marksman at all, dog.  Are you?”

“No,” Theon admitted, keeping his eyes down.  He was afraid Ramsay would see his rage and his hate.

“Good boy.”

Theon gritted his teeth, nearly gauled into aiming the bow at Ramsay’s heart.  “What...would you have of me next?”

“Put down the bow.”

Theon exhaled and dropped the bow, his churned-up hands trembling as they did so. He looked to his tormentor for some hint, some sign of how to behave. Ramsay was too quiet, but he looked at his friends, smirking. The Bastard’s Boys exchanged knowing looks and snickers, like they anticipated some new “game.”

Theon was the only one left in the dark when Ramsay played his games.  All the games hurt in the end, because Theon always lost.  His wounds were crucifying reminders of the pain, and whenever they left him alone, all he did was sob.  Straightening his shoulders, Theon stared sullenly at nothing.

“We are going to play a new game.  Are you listening, my little cur?”

The prisoner’s hands twitched.  That was a new name; he had so many little ones, now: cur, bitch, meat...perhaps one was the right answer to the name game.  But Theon doubted it.  Ramsay’s games were never that simple.

Shutting his eyes, the prisoner brought himself back to the present.  Did Ramsay want to further humiliate him in front of the Boys?  “Yes, I’m listening.”

“Good boy.  My men and I are going to take turns throwing arrows across lawn, and you are going to retrieve them with your mouth, like a dog, and bring them back to us on all fours.”

Theon’s lip curled involuntarily.  “Why?”  It was one word, a whisper of defiance, but the request made his stomach turn to ice.  He watched Ramsay’s hulking form lumber towards him, and flinched.

But all Ramsay did was pet his cheek, smiling like a sweet child.  Like the ones he had...had.  Theon couldn’t stand it, and flinched again.

“I’m just _petting_ you,” Ramsay assured him, as if the world wasn’t spinning further out of sync.  “You’re a slow thing, so I’ll forgive you, this one time, if you do my boys a favor later.  Dogs don’t ask _why_.  They don’t need to know.”

 _A favor,_ Theon thought, and shrunk down, his body tingling and head light.

“Now, what is your name?”

“I don’t know.”  Theon felt like death was eating him up inside, swallowing him whole.  In death at least the ludicrous answer would become the truth.

“See, that’s much better.”

Ramsay’s hand felt like fire against his cheek, but Theon did not flinch.

“Now, what were we going to do, boy?”

“I fetch your arrows.”  Theon struggled to get the rest of it out.  “On all fours.”  The thought of his mutilated fingers sticky with dirt, aching more with the weight of his body, made his stomach rumble.   _Maybe I’ll get an infection, and die._ That seemed a mercy.  

Theon moved away from that spot.  Then he knelt, and then got on his hands and knees.  As his flayed fingers met the ground, he whimpered, choking back a moan.

“Time to learn to fetch!” Ramsay called out jubilantly, and his crew slunk forward, grinning.

One of the crew crouched down next to Theon, patting him on the head, pretending to be kind.  Theon stared at the ground, and did not flinch.

“M’name’s Ben,” the man told him.  Theon did not care; he only cared what Ramsay wanted, what Ramsay desired.  “I’m the kennel master, and I’ll be seeing more of you.  That is, if you behave.”

Theon understood, then.   _This is my choice,_ he realized, _obey and be a dog, or be locked in the dungeons, thrown into the dark place, beaten.  Flayed!_

“Why don’t you bark for old Ben?” Ramsay asked sweetly.  A command, Theon knew, and a threat.

Theon sobbed, and through the slobber and tears, he barked.   _My father will come,_ he told himself, _he’ll come soon, and get me._ He stared at his ruined fingers, burning in the mud.   _...Will he?  And if he does, will he want me?  I am no Kraken, not anymore._

Ben selected one of Theon’s best arrows, a shaft and point that Theon had laboriously perfected himself.  Then he broke it in half, and flung both halves in opposite directions.  “Fetch.”

The man who couldn’t say his name didn’t move, not because he was defiant, but because he was frozen.

“Aw, did the mutt never learn to fetch?”  Ramsay asked.  “I can let him have a training session with another boy, if he needs instructions.

Theon fetched.  The wood made him salivate, his churning and empty stomach rumbling.  He kept his head down, and dropped both of the arrows into Ben’s waiting hand.

“Good boy,” Ben said, _almost_ kind, _almost_ human.  Then he reached into his pocket and  pulled out two small bits of meat.  He dangled them above Theon, and Theon was desperate.

But Theon knew now, he knew the right answer, and he looked at Ramsay pleadingly.  Ramsay nodded his assent, and the dog ate.  His stomach seemed to grow more pinched, instead of less.  Ben snapped another prize arrow, threw it, and Theon returned; again he was fed, and petted.

Theon didn’t know himself, anymore; he didn’t know himself because he clung pitifully to the kindness, however fake it was.  Desperation clung to him now, too, a skin that couldn’t be flayed away.

“Please,” he whispered, to the assembled crowd.  Hoping, praying.  For what, he wasn’t sure.  It didn’t matter, because speaking had been a mistake.

“Bad dog,” Ramsay whispered.  “When you are on all fours, you don’t _talk.”_ His tone was murderous.  “Still, you’ve mastered fetch and begging quickly enough.  I know, I know, you want me to cut off the flayed bits of you.  You’ve been begging for days.  Come.”

Theon came, hurried, rushed to Ramsay’s feet as fast as he could crawl.  He sat on his haunches, and begged Ramsay with his eyes.  The pain made spots of light float in front of his vision.

“First, a lesson.  Dogs don’t talk.”  Ramsay started to undo his pants.  “Seems you need to gag a bit, hmm?  Second, if you do good, I’ll cut one off.”

At first Theon didn’t realize the whine in his ears was coming from his own lips.  The urge to run was as powerful as the urge he’d felt to please his father, but an end to the pain was all-encompassing.  Instead of fleeing, Theon moved closer, cringing as the boys howled with amusement.

Theon gagged as the fleshy cock loomed closer to his face, and turned away. His heart pounded, and his throat burned with acid.  His captor had tried three times to make Theon use his mouth the way a woman would. The first refusal had gotten Theon three days of hunger; the second had given him a hammer blow to the face that knocked out five of his teeth. At the third disobedience, he’d had all his clothes cut off.  Then the skinny, sulking one had whipped to the point of unconsciousness. Even through it all, Theon had not broken. He was a lord, a _man_ , a son of Pyke and heir to the Isles.   _Men don’t break like this,_ he thought, _I won’t._

Behind him, he heard Ramsay’s men jeering and hooting. Theon’s heart thumped, and it reminded him of the sound the hammer had made when it had struck his face.

“I see my mutt isn’t ready to eat meat,” purred Ramsay with sadistic glee. “Ben, don’t give him any more scraps. I’m sure the rotting porridge in the pigs’ trough will keep him alive for the next week or two.”

Theon’s stomach cramped, and he whimpered involuntarily. Perhaps he could force himself to endure this once, if it meant being fed. He looked up, hoping for a shred of compassion, but instead was met with an icy, judging stare.

Theon pawed at Ramsay’s boots and tried to sound like a dog, desperate for another chance to escape Ramsay’s punishment.  Biting his lip, Theon moved closer, and opened his mouth to put it around Ramsay’s tip.  Women had done this to hm countless times, but he _couldn’t_.  Gagging again, he sputtered.  The smell alone was overwhelming.

“I have an idea,” Ramsay said slowly. He spoke as though an idea had just dawned upon him, but Theon knew better.

The long nights they’d spent together in the dungeons had taught Theon that truth.  Ramsay had been looking forward to this new torture for a long time. Everything was planned.  There was a purpose in Ramsay’s head for the dog who didn’t know his name.  And the dog wasn’t going to like it.

“I think perhaps our little cur isn’t in the mood because his own needs aren’t being properly...attended to. Bitch, take off your breeches.”

Theon’s bloodied hands quivered as he slowly moved to the drawstrings at his waist. He fumbled with them, and a cry of fear burst from his chapped lips.  Ramsay kicked him in the stomach, sending him sprawling over and gasping for air.

“Not like that. Dogs don’t have hands. Worm your way out of them.”

Theon stared at the grass, trying to fight off the fear that cut through him, filling him up to his bones. _Stay strong_ , he told himself in his mind. _You are still a man of Pyke.  Men of Pyke have been tortured before, and they have survived._

Theon lay down and shrugged his way out of his breeches; in a certain way, he watched himself, from far away. They were several sizes too loose from starvation, which made the task easier.  He still looked like a writhing snake, pierced by an arrow in the grass.

His captor knelt over him, taking his manhood roughly in one hand. He squeezed it a bit too tight and began to pump.

“When was the last time a woman did this to you?” he asked. The other men jeered and hooted with laughter.

“I….I don’t know.”  Theon shook his head; he didn’t want to remember.  He didn’t want Ramsay’s hands on him, feeling him, using him.

Ramsay stood over him and pressed a boot into Theon’s stomach, pressing down and down until the other man screamed in pain.

“I. Said. How. Long. Ago?”

“A month, mi’lord...maybe two...please! Please stop!” His face was wet with tears, and he covered his face with his hands.  “I don’t know, m’lord.  In the dark I forget.”

Ramsay stepped away and spit on him in disgust.

“It seems we must take more brutal measures,” Ramsay said to his men, gesturing toward the naked captive on the ground. “I propose we show him what else those arrows of his can be used for. We’ll shove some up his ass like a skewered roast pig.”

Ramsay turned to Theon. “You hear that, bitch? Oh, and you’ll play with yourself while we are at it. Pleasure yourself. Make yourself come all over the ground while we have our fun - we’ll make you end up _liking_ it.”

“Please,” Theon heard himself saying, as if he was somewhere else.  He wasn’t really there, not really.  He was far away through a glaze, a mist, and the man who didn’t know his name was the one on the ground.  The man said:  “Please, m’lord.  I-I’m sorry.”  A pause, a grasping for the right words.  “I’m sorry I was a bad dog.  I’ll obey.  Please don’t make me.”   _Have any men of Pyke begged?_ Theon thought, almost philosophically.   _Have they ever stooped to this?  It doesn’t matter; I’m somebody else._ “And I don’t know my name,” he added, in a rush.  Then he clamped his mouth shut, remembering the ban on speaking pups.

Ramsay came back towards him, kneeling on the ground.  His gloved hands clutched the nape of Theon’s neck.  He pulled his captive towards him, until their foreheads were touching.  “The next time you don’t obey as my dog, I’ll beat you bloody.  If you speak, even to beg, you’ll get worse.  Dogs whine.  Dogs whimper.  And then they stay obedient and loyal.  Understand?”

Theon nodded dumbly, eyes fixated on the arrows in Ramsay’s hands.   _His_ arrows.

“Good dog.  Now do what I wanted you to do before, or I _will_ stick these up your ass.”

Again, the captive nodded, silent as a tomb.  Above, Theon watched.


End file.
